


Modality

by Cee



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Drunk philosophy, F/M, Haydn, Heraclitus, Italian Summer, M/M, Presocratics, bookish oliver, change, horny Elio, misinterpretation, oversimplified concepts, plato - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 08:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17117585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cee/pseuds/Cee
Summary: Elio has ten days to make sense of the world and Oliver.





	Modality

**Author's Note:**

> _Modality_ (n): a particular mode in which something exists or is experienced or expressed.

Two weeks.

Not that anyone was counting.

From what I knew, Oliver still walked the grounds, biked to town every morning, lay shirtless by the pool in the afternoons, sat through our lunch and dinner drudgeries, and slept next to me every night. His presence had already imprinted itself around the house, casting a silhouette of familiar shapes and shadows onto our lives.

So naturally, the minute Oliver came back from his meeting with Senora Milani, I had him pinned firmly against the door of our room, my hand under his waistband and my mouth latched onto his neck.

“Later,” he gasped, his intonation a half groan - using that same catchphrase which, even now, I still kind of hated.

He laughed and shoved me off without much conviction. He was flushed, his arousal already evident through his shorts. “You do know I’m not just here on vacation right?”

“Could have fooled me,” I murmured, hearing his breath hitch as I reeled him in and flattened my body against his to show how much I wanted him. I was familiar with this dance now. All I had to do was shove down our shorts and could take him against the wall in record time.

He stepped around me, narrowly escaping my grasp. “It’s not like I don’t want to.”

“Then why are you making this difficult?”

“Speak for yourself,” he said. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to excuse myself at meals because of you?” He crossed the room to pick up a few books from the desk, searching under some papers for a thickly bound folder. I could tell from his labored movements and stilted gait that his mouth wasn’t where his mind was at the moment. “Too many.”

I huffed and pressed the heel of my palm against my crotch.

“Besides,” he continued, grabbing some pens from the desk, “I have a date with your father and pages 91 to 107 before noon, so I’ll see you _later_.”

As he headed out the door, he stopped short of me, leaned over and brushed his lips over my cheekbone, the tips of his fingers ghosting the back of my neck. I tilted my head back and swallowed, my body wrought with anticipation. He lingered there for a few seconds, hot breath tickling my pulse, just barely, before pulling back with a smirk. Then he was gone.

  


  


  


Our days went on per usual. Me with my music, him with his books. We still talked about poetry, novels, his writing, my transcriptions - all while enjoying the quiet moments between meals and trips to town.

Being together didn’t mean everything else around us had to change. I met up with Marzia whenever I could. He played poker with the usual crew. It was this new unspoken understanding that allowed us to slide back into our old routine - the same way my father would occasionally take a page out of a file for a quick edit, only to place it back in the folder and shelf where it resided, inconspicuous but not untouched.

I still wanted to read Heraclitus to impress Oliver and had no shortage of questions about the Presocratics, the various interpretations of the fragments, and the conflicting views on the true meaning of "being". I took pleasure in hearing his voice from the first breath of morning and through the afternoon lull, like listening to a broken record of one’s favorite summer hit.

Oliver continued to humor me, spending countless would-be editing hours explaining the fundamentals of metaphysics and epistemology because he wanted to. He would give me an overview as he did for his students, breaking down difficult concepts without compromising the literature. We’d sit down by the rocks in the early hours of the day, legs dangling in the water, shoulders touching, as he spoke about the unity of opposites or the significance of transformation and "becoming" in nature. I loved seeing that side of him.

In return, he’d still ask - while brushing his fingers down my thigh, both daring and cautious - if I could strum something pleasing for him later. As before, I would always oblige.

Songs would soon filter freely through the thick heat of noon and color the lush backdrop of the villa. It was our Eden, and part of me would not have minded lying next to Oliver by the pool, surrounded by bountiful orchards, grapevines, and olive groves for the rest of my life. We could lounge in the garden, me with my scorebook and him in “heaven” with his pens, papers and books scattered across the grass, simply _apricating_ \- as he would say.

“I’ll miss all this,” he said, during one such morning. He had spoken these same words to my mother, and it mattered that he said them to me as well. I heard his voice catch but could never tell for sure when he had his sunglasses on.

I played an old tune on my guitar, taking in the sounds and space that belonged to us these past few weeks. We can do this every day, I thought. You can tell me about Democritus, Thales, Pythagoras and Zeno while I serenade you to the moon and back. Like Scheherazade and Shahryar, we’ll have a promise of tomorrow.

  


  


  


When my mother asked about my plans over lunch, I told her that I was going to the movies with Marzia later that evening. We were going to see the old commedia all’italliana, _Il Sorpasso_. Oliver had never heard of it.

“One of Dino Risi’s finest works if I may say so myself,” my father said. “It’s a shame the film was overlooked during its time.”

“With competition like Fellini or Antonioni? _Non è sorprendente_ ,” my mother said, tapping her cigarette lightly on the ashtray.

“You should come with,” I said to Oliver, nudging the sole of his foot with my toe.

“I’ll pass. You should probably spend more time with Marzia,” he said, curtly, in the same dismissive manner reminiscent of that time he tried to push me to sleep with her. He might as well play third parent and tell me: “you should be having fun at your age."

“She wouldn’t mind,” I insisted.

“I have some things I need to work on.”

It stung, even after all this time. I was wrong in thinking I could ever get used to that casual cold shoulder he gave every time he feigned indifference. I knew better now. We both did.

During the film, I was in a mood and tried not to think about our earlier exchange. It didn’t take long for my mind to wander, even as grainy images of the _Via Aurelia_ lit up the screen. Was he in the room working on his manuscript? Was he reading on his - _our_ \- bed? Or did he decide to bike out for a game of poker, maybe fuck one of the girls or guys in town just to spite me. I couldn’t sit still, antsy and perturbed as I picked at a ripped flap on the side of my chair. I started to wonder about the men that Oliver had been with, if they were bigger or better lovers than I. Soon, shots of the Lazio coastline panned out before me, breathtaking and familiar. I thought of Oliver on that rock, the night he looked me in the eye, tone soft, voice unwavering as he told me he thought of me and only me.

I felt like the worst kind of hypocrite by the time the credits rolled.

Marzia asked for my opinion of the film as we walked from the theater to our bikes. "I thought it was entertaining and captured the mood of the 1960s well."

“I thought it was sad,” she said. “Roberto didn’t know what he was getting into.”

“He was young and bored,” I said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, handing her one while nipping at my own, “and idealistic.”

“I felt like Bruno was poking fun at us,” she continued. She let me light hers before taking a long drag. “At our lives. At this.” She gestured at our surroundings. I couldn’t argue with that either.

“ _Il dolce far niente_ ,” I said.

She shoved me lightly. “This is why I don’t like going to the movies with you.”

We were both tired that day, so after giving her a kiss at her gate, I rode home, making my way through the backyard and leaving my bike by the shed. I stumbled up to the bathroom and quickly washed up before bee-lining across the balcony and into the other room to find Oliver already in bed.

I collapsed next to him, not caring if I disturbed him or if he was still awake. It turned out to be the latter.

“How was it?”

“Good,” I said, hugging my pillow. I rolled on my side and leaned on an elbow, trying to make out his figure in the dark. “It made me want to go on a road trip with you.”

I was starting to see a clearer outline of a face. A smile. “I’ll bet.”

“We should do that one of these days, just the two of us. Take my father’s car through Tuscany and all the way down to Naples.”

He reached out to caress my cheek.

“I’d love that,” he said, so softly it was barely a whisper.

I closed my eyes, leaning into his touch. “I didn’t have sex with Marzia.”

“I know.”

He opened his arms and let me crawl into them.

  


  


  


This newfound intimacy was both a blessing and a curse, I soon came to realize. It brightened and elevated every hour of my day and soothed me through the night. It also made me careless, brazen, and thoroughly drunk on my senses whenever we were in the same room - pretending not to feel the insistent tug of want every time he came within arm's length. While Oliver still had a modicum of decency to continue playing the good house guest, I started losing all self-discipline.

Now that I knew how he looked - really looked - behind those sunglasses, under that straw hat, beneath those shorts, through that steely gaze, mock confidence and “I know myself” mantra, I struggled hard to keep my composure in public. I knew the faces and sounds he made when he was aroused and needy, or when he came in my hand, breath stuttering and muscles trembling through the aftershocks of a mind-blowing orgasm.

I would take breaks during reading or transcribing only to find my gaze wandering to his spot by the pool. It wasn’t just there though. It happened over meals, on the rocks by the beach, or during our bike rides in the evening - where I always got a good glimpse of him from behind.

I was never discreet and would often catch Oliver staring back at me, his eyes trenchant and cold - an expression I knew well enough now to decipher. I would challenge his gaze defiantly, rubbing myself under the table, as if to say _yes, you caught me, but don’t expect me to look away_.

More than lust and desire, my need for Oliver had become an indulgence. He knew that now and allowed me to yield to my addiction without fear of temporal punishment, stoking the carnal fires in me, molding himself to fit my every want. And like a courtesan beckoning a weary traveler, I encouraged him to immerse himself with me fully in this ritual - without guilt or shame - and seized every opportunity that presented itself throughout the day.

During those long afternoons, Oliver wanted light. We never closed the curtains and let the sun shine freely through the French windows. He said it made him feel like we were outside.

I’d walk into the room to find him working in his shorts, my shorts, or nothing at all. He’d be lying on the bed with a few pages of manuscript spread out in front of him. I would immediately feel a deep pang of arousal, filling me with the Pavlovian need to take him - consume him. With the torpid heat hanging over us and my appetite wet with lust, I’d crawl up behind him and trace my fingers down along his ribs, feeling the firm muscles lining his abdomen. He’d rest his head against my chest and sigh his satisfaction.

One such afternoon, I remembered licking at the space between his shoulder, tasting a mix of brine and sea. I stroked and sucked him until he was fully hard, then fucked him then and there, the wet sounds of our coupling filling the room until he gasped and came all over the sheets and the unfinished pages of his manuscript.

Later, I watched Oliver snoring softly next to me, brushing my knuckles against his soft lips if only to remind myself that this was no dream. I no longer had to imagine his voice or the contours of his body - not when he had willingly presented himself to me, asking me to make use of him.

Time always stopped during that part of the day, the sun at its peak, my pulse slowing alongside his, drowned out by Anchise's loud hammering in the yard and the rattling of the cicadas.

  


  


  


“Why Presocratics?”

Oliver looked up from his notepad and pulled back his headphones, hanging them from his neck like a noose. He was lying by the pool again, working on a few pages of his book.

Ever since he lost his Montblanc pen, he had been using one of my fountain pens. It got me hard watching him casually slip the pen behind his ear or between his lips, knowing how comfortable he was with me now that he didn’t even think twice about using my things. I adjusted myself on the chair. These thoughts didn’t stop just because I slept with him every night.

“I’m sure you get that a lot,” I added.

He nodded, shifting up on his arms, and looked at me pointedly. “That’s like me asking you - why music?”

“Everyone likes music.”

“Sure.” He took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. I could see the slight reddish imprint on the skin there from the weight of the frames.

I wasn’t sure if I had stumbled into forbidden territory and was about to give up altogether until he spoke.

“I like deciphering texts,” he said, fiddling with the pen again, "asking big questions. Solving mysteries.”

Mysteries. My mind went to those small pulp novels from my childhood that often featured a chiseled protagonist with a dark past, a crime most foul, and a sad sultry woman who somehow always ended up dead.

“The Presocratics had less to work with compared to the later philosophers. Their ideas were novel for their time,” Oliver continued, shrugging. “I guess I respect the foundations.”

“But to dedicate your whole career to analyzing old scripts, then write a book about your take on the subject when it could well be wrong.” I flipped quickly through the worn out copy of _Fragments_ on my table, which I had borrowed from my father’s library. “You must have had your reservations.” He could have been a businessman, a politician, or even a lawyer - winning all his cases with that wit and charm.

He chuckled. “I thought you of all people would understand. You’re the son of a professor.”

“But not _a_ professor.”

“Well it’s no different from what you’re doing now,” he said, nodding to my scorebook. “We’re all just interpreters at the end of the day.”

I let out an exaggerated sigh and raised my hands in defeat. We returned to our work in silence, and I assumed that the matter was closed.

After lunch, Oliver dragged me over to the piano and asked me to play something for him. Bach, Brahms, Liszt. He wasn’t picky.

“I just want to hear you play,” he said and draped himself comfortably across the couch. It warmed me immensely.

More than literature or poetry, my father had always believed it was music that integrated the senses. For Oliver, it was also the best kind of aphrodisiac. In that room, I was able to take him to another realm - away from his book, dinner guests and thoughts of home. I played for him my interpretation of Bach’s _Concerto No. 5 in F_ and tried to imagine what was going through his mind then, whether he could hear - through the chords and modulations - my message to him, honest and true.

We can’t always change the world, I thought, closing my eyes. Maybe we don’t have to. We could change the words, melodies, phrases, and forms. We could change the way we say things. The different modes of expression couldn’t erase the truth behind our intentions. I knew what I wanted, and in this lifetime, maybe that was more than enough.

By the end of the song, a hush fell over the room, and I turned to find him giving me _that look_. He took me upstairs and fucked me hard against the headboard until I could no longer feel my legs.

In the afterglow, he asked if I ever finished Haydn’s _Seven Last Words of Christ_. I told him that I needed to let it sit for a while.

“So you just work on the transcription whenever you feel like it?”

I was lying on top of him, noting the slow rise and fall of his chest and hearing all the sounds of his insides. “I enjoy transcribing,” I said, kissing his nipple, moving up to nip at his clavicle and all along the side of his neck, “and I don’t like putting a deadline on things.”

“Must be nice.”

I hummed my agreement into his skin and told him that I was hoping to finish it in a week or so. He asked if I would play it for him then. I nodded, lazily, breathing in the heady scent of sex and testosterone.

“This. What I do," he said, quietly, letting his hand trail down my back. "I wanted to." I could feel his heart slow to a steady pace. “It’s one of the few things I’ve allowed myself to pursue.”

I lifted my head up and cupped his face, thumbing his cheekbones fondly. “I think I understand. In a way.”

I realized I was getting hard again and, on impulse, started rubbing myself against his length, which made him laugh and pull me in for another punishing kiss. In the heat of the moment, I had forgotten about the copy of _Fragments_ , abandoned on the ground for more exciting temptations of the flesh.

  


  


  


One evening, a scruffy philosophy professor from Stanford came by for a visit. He had been wanting to meeting my father for years now and had just come from a conference in Geneva. He was younger than most of our dinner guests and dressed comfortably in casual attire after a long day of travel. Sometimes these types annoyed Oliver, with their pompous speeches and pretentious demeanor, but this one spoke plainly and handled his debates like a gentlemen. As the night went on, the topic of conversation went from Nietzsche to Aquinas to Sartre, back to Nietzsche, then Aristotle, before settling on Plato. The wine was circulating our system by the time we started discussing the nature of love.

“Is there an ideal form of beauty?” asked the young professor, swiveling his fourth glass of _rosatello_.

“It’s subjective,” Oliver said. “Our idea of beauty is only one part of the whole that we’ve arbitrarily picked out and labeled. We use it as an all encompassing term despite not knowing how to define it.”

“And love wants what love has not - that of which is beauty,” the professor said. "We love beautiful things, naturally."

My father refilled his glass and sat back, pondering the thought. "We love what we _think_ is beautiful, but beauty itself exists outside our understanding of love. So while there may be an ideal form of beauty - the kind that transcends all - it can be dangerous to love something like that - something so....elusive. It will not hurt you. It will not leave you. But it will never love you back.”

Our guest turned to me expectantly. “What do you think?”

“I’m only seventeen,” I said, playing with the spoon I had used for my _semifreddo_ , long devoured. “What do I know about love.”

Everyone laughed, except Oliver, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“You’d be surprised,” the professor said, beaming. “Age is irrelevant.”

“From my experience, I do think - or rather, I _know_ an ideal form of beauty exists,” my father said, raising his glass to my mother.

“You, sir, are a romantic!”

“What can I say."

He turned to my mother. “Is that right? Did he try to woo you with a sonnet, or serenade you from outside your window with a classic _canzone napoletana_?”

“Oh he tried many things,” she said, giving my father a knowing look that made him flush more than any wine could.

To close the evening, I played them Liszt’s _Liebestraum_. It was always a safe bet. Eventually, the professor said his farewells and retreated to the guest house. My father invited Oliver and me to his study for a smoke, seeing as we were still lingering about.

I settled on one of the chairs while Oliver took his place by the window, another glass of wine in hand. My father didn’t even have to look at Oliver to know.

“You disagree.”

“It’s not that, Pro.” Oliver ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I just don’t understand how one can spend so much time studying and researching the different forms of love and not feel - I don’t know - ridiculous?”

“Spoken like a true stoic,” my father said as he lit a cigarette.

My father walked over to the shelves where his books were neatly ordered by title, author, and genre - no doubt painstakingly organized by one of his earlier residents. He pulled out a book that had no jacket or cover, worn around the edges from years of use, and flipped a few pages in. He sat on the edge of the desk, eyes scanning, taking a puff of the bud.

“Love is of the beautiful, and therefore has not the beautiful,” my father said evenly, holding the book in one hand so he could tap the stub away on the ashtray once, twice. “And the beautiful is good, and therefore, in wanting and desiring the beautiful - ”

“ - love also wants and desires the good,” Oliver finished. From across the room, his eyes met mine. I felt the air still, the silence stagnant in its confines.

He lowered his gaze. “I’ll never get it.”

“This is why we leave these matters to other experts in the field,” my father said and slid the book back in its place on the shelf. “Personally, I get enough satisfaction from Tolstoy or Shakespeare. Love doesn’t always have to be so complicated.”

“Or tragic,” Olive added, and we all laughed.

“Touché." My father took another drag and smiled. “You know me well enough now to know how much how I like to wallow in the melodrama.”

  


  


  


Oliver went out that night for a game of poker.

“I need to take the edge off,” he told me. “Don’t wait up.”

I woke up to the sounds of the toilet flushing and shower head in use, but remained half asleep until I saw him step in quietly from behind the French windows. I glanced sleepily at the clock on my bedside table and noticed that it was only half past one. He kicked off his espadrilles and climbed in bed, burrowing under the sheets.

“Good night?” I yawned and caressed his thighs. He nodded and tucked his chin under mine, kissing my jawline and the space behind my ear, sighing deeply. Through the fresh scent of Roger & Gallet, I smelled a hint of liquor.

“Do you need water?”

“Already had some,” he mumbled into my hair. “Want to?”

I always did.

It wasn't long before I was rummaging around under the bed for the necessary products, too eager and horny to feel embarrassed. He let me undress him, ever so patient as I removed each article, one by one, and tossed them over to the side. He made his way down my body, peppering me with kisses while I discarded my own clothes, his arms circling my waist, head resting on my stomach.

“Are you sure you’re - ”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, breath tickling the dark trail there. I slid my hands through his soft hair, holding the sides of his scalp, stabilizing him as he hummed his content. Even now, I still held the belief that there was nobody out there who wanted him as physically as I did.

His breathing became ragged as soon as I slid a long, slick finger into him. He said very little, his mouth a tight grimace, all focus on the strain and intimacy of that initial stretch. I continued to venture in, further each time, in search of that spot, calibrating my movements to his fit his every whim. When I finally found it, he groaned and spread his legs wider.

I took it as a signal to add another, then another, working them in while I bent down to suck on the tip of his cock, dragging my tongue down along a particularly angry looking vein before working on the area behind his balls.

Oliver was a mess by the time I finished prepping him, a tad unsteady as he got onto his elbows and knees. I gripped at my cock and steadied myself, taking in the view while also trying not to come on the spot. I entered him slowly, feeling the ring of muscle tighten and give with every inch. I licked at the salt that collected on his back and planted kisses down the dips of his spine to help ease the discomfort.

“Okay?” I asked. I canted my hips up to add the last few inches.

He nodded, eyes closed, chin propped against his chest, the muscles of his back flexed and taut as he took a minute to adjust. Finding his balance, he looked over his shoulder in search of my lips. I kissed him with equal passion, gripped his sides, and began to move.

I fucked him slowly at first, lazy thrusts, learning from our past experiences to let his sounds and reactions guide me. With one hand stroking him in tune, I reached over with the other to grasp the side of his neck - not tightly, but enough to feel his pulse build - then slid my hand down to his jaw, seeking out teeth and tongue. I shifted my hips, facing resistance at this angle and felt him moan around the three fingers I had in his mouth.

It didn’t take long for him to come, both of us panting hard, rhythm uneven. I tightened my hold on him, upping the pace, biting his shoulder as I followed him over the edge.

We lay there in the aftermath, sticky and satiated. I got up to find a towel and came back to quite a sight: Oliver splayed out on my bed, flushed but serene, an arm angled under his head and the other rested on his stomach. He’d make a fine specimen for a sketch if one could ignore how shamelessly he displayed himself, legs still bent and slightly spread. It gave me a great deal of satisfaction to discover that I had ruined him like I had ruined that peach.

I stood there, taking him in for a moment, then climbed on the bed to clean up the mess. I draped the freshly washed covers over us, snuggling up against him and reveling in the wonderful medley of sweat and chamomile.

“I like you like this,” I murmured and inhaled the sweet scent of his hair. God, he smelled good.

He snorted. “Half-drunk?”

“Relaxed,” I said. “I don’t like it when you worry.” There was no place for that here, in our room overlooking the sea.

He didn’t say anything and just held me.

Later, in our post-coital bliss, he told me he wanted to go to the belfry at San Giacomo before he left - see the entire coastline and view of the town from the highest point in B. - and he wanted me to be there with him when he did.

  


  


  


Waking up was an entirely different affair now.

I woke up not only to the sun, doves cooing, sounds of Mafalda scuttling around the kitchen, and smells of the morning espresso brewing, but also to Oliver’s slow breathing next to me.

Gone were the anxiety-ridden mornings spent worrying about whether or not he’d stop by before exercising, or whether he’d talk to me or avoid me that day. Gone was the insomnia, exacerbated by all that waiting. Gone was the guilt, even - the self loathing - that I felt so strongly after our first time.

Now, I would open my eyes at the crack of dawn and feel him shift at my side, sometimes reading a book, other times staring out the French windows. _Thinking_ , he’d tell me, strumming his fingers over my hip. He was an early riser still, but there were times when I was able to catch a glimpse of him from under my arm or pillow unaware and unguarded. In those rare moments, he appeared softer and younger than myself, his naked body stirring the same unspeakable thoughts in me.

Sometimes he’d catch me in the act. With my cover blown, I’d boldly snake a hand down to grab hold of him, lazily working him over. Other times, he’d crawl underneath the sheets and take me in his mouth. I never complained and would be up in no time.

After washing up, we'd put on a pair of shorts and shoes and head out to the promenade for a run or swim.

“It doesn’t get better than this,” he said one morning when we stopped at the clearing to catch our breaths. We had just crossed a long stretch of the Riviera and were still a long way from the top. He leaned over the hanging to take in the view. 

From there, I could see our house, the Moresci house, Vimini’s house, and a few other villas aligning the coast. It really was the most beautiful place in the world.

“Race you to the top!” I yelled.

He had a few inches on me in height and routine to his advantage, and gained on me easily. Soon enough, I was looking at his back. I could see him shrink further into the distance as I ran, ears ringing, legs burning with exertion.

“Do keep up!” He laughed, childlike excitement shining through that confident facade.

He could have never known then that I would follow him up the tallest mountain, across vast oceans, to the ends of the earth. That I would walk through the fires of hell, endure all of Dante’s trials, cross various dimensions of space and time for him if he’d only wait for me.

  


  


  


“Plato?”

I was sitting at my table with an old hardback copy of _Republic_ \- courtesy of my father - and glass of cold lemonade, every now and then glancing over at Oliver, who lay sprawled out on a sheet in the grass, papers and color pencils shoved haphazardly to the side, the straw hat slipping off his face to reveal a peeping eye. His body was glistening with sweat and suntan lotion, and I was starting to question whether the sun bathing was for his pleasure or mine.

“That professor got me curious,” I said, shrugging.

“Well he is the most accessible,” Oliver said. He readjusted the hat to cover his face. “I’m surprised you haven’t read him already.”

“Me too.”

“I suppose everyone has got to at some point. He really set the groundwork for rationalism.”

I nodded. “I like how he explains things.”

Oliver lifted his hat and raised an eyebrow. “You mean by way of other famous figures? I had a hard time taking him seriously when I first read him.”

I had a feeling he wasn’t too fond of Plato. I told him as much.

“It’s not that,” he said. “He just always seemed like a fascist to me.”

“Fair enough.” I conceded, closing the book. “He’s also not the biggest supporter of the arts. Imagine what kind of utopia that would be.”

“I don’t think he understood people well,” Oliver said, finally sitting up and shuffling his papers into one pile, “and after grading thousands of essays of the subject, the novelty wears off quick. I’m not even sure if he believed half the things he wrote.”

As we walked upstairs for our usual siesta, I stopped by my room and stood there, rubbing the frayed edges of the book, gray and worn over years of use and stasis in my father’s study. I threw the book on my bed for future reading and followed Oliver to the next room. At the corner of my desk a few feet away sat a copy of _Fragments_ , bookmarked at the page I only half read when I put it aside a week ago.

  


  


  


Early morning one day, I saw gray clouds hovering low over the whole of B. An omen. It was a cruel, cutting reminder of how little time we had left.

From the window, I could spot Oliver and Vimini sitting on their rock, talking like they did every morning. I felt a knot form in my throat. I glanced around at the state of the room: books and papers strewn across the bed, his green shorts draped haphazardly over the chair, Billowy hanging in the closet. Soon, entropy would have its way, disrupting the domestic layout and routine built on six weeks of summer, erasing traces of Oliver from the room, little by little. The room itself, though, would remain forever changed by him. I knew that years later, he'd still live in the walls, creaky floorboards, and rickety bed frame that shook from our long, rough night sessions. He wouldn't let me forget him.

After breakfast, I agreed to meet up with Marzia at the beach for a few hours. Even she could feel my restlessness.

“You’re somewhere else right now,” she said, bluntly, leaning away as I tried to put an arm around her. I was able to coax her into staying another fifteen minutes or so with kisses and light petting, but she eventually excused herself to play tennis with some friends.

Oliver wasn’t back when I returned to the house. I decided to work on the easier parts of my transcription, testing certain measures on the piano and noting the changes in my scorebook, before putting that aside too. I had hit a block, I thought, slumping over the keys.

“Are you going to play something for us?”

I must have jumped because I turned and saw Vimini and Oliver standing at the entrance snickering together like old buddies. I made a face but played for them all the same, settling for Ravel’s take on Debussy’s _La plus que lente_ , which was quieter and more dreamlike than the original. I soon regretted this decision, after encountering an increasing number of dissonant chords and key changes mid song that had me fumbling the tone and mood established in the earlier sections.

Vimini clapped at the end, while Oliver sat on the edge of the couch with a pensive look on his face. Perhaps, he too had sensed my frustration in the performance.

She eyed us both, sharp as ever. Before she could comment, my father came in to tell us that lunch was ready.

We had just gone upstairs to wash up before the meal when Oliver pushed me down on the bed and made quick work of our shorts. He crawled on top of me and kissed me hard, teeth clacking, stroking both our cocks together roughly until we came between our stomachs.

We were strangely quiet through the whole thing, and it wasn’t until I heard the clinking of the utensils through the open window that I realized we had been lying there a while.

“Lunch,” I reminded him, feeling come cool on my belly.

“Just a bit longer,” he said, not moving, face burrowed in the crook of my arm.

Nobody asked why we were late to the table. Mafalda left us two empty spots adjacent to each other, which allowed me to place my foot over Oliver’s.

  


  


  


We went fishing at noon the next day, taking my father’s boat far out until the house became a speck on the horizon. I wondered how far Oliver went that one day we thought he had drowned.

“Do you really believe that this,” I gestured all around us, “is a different ocean?”

He nodded. “It’s not stagnant. Nothing in life is or can be.”

“Of course you would say that,” I said, shifting a bit to the side to ease the cramp that was building in my leg.

“You can propose a counterargument to that if you want,” he said. “Many people have.”

He placed his hand above the water, barely skimming the surface, testing the temperature. I remembered Oliver telling me about Thales and how he believed everything came from water, needed water, and returned to water. I thought about Anchise’s fish, Mother’s flowers, the sweat on Oliver’s back, the stream that trickled down his chin whenever he drank from the cold glass bottle after tennis.

I remembered a passage from one of Oliver’s books: _For it is death to souls to become water, and death to water to become earth. But water comes from earth, and from water, soul._

“Have you been snooping in my books?” The corners of his lips twitched.

I leaned in and kissed his neck, running my tongue over his Adam’s apple. He didn’t mind, not out here in the open when it was just the two of us and the deep blue. 

It was believed here that if one dared to look down, he’d see the ocean floor, clear as day. There is no sea as calm and transparent as the Mediterranean, my aunt used to say. It hides nothing. You'd have to be terribly unlucky to die in a place so tranquil.

Nothing was tugging on the line, and I had a feeling that our bait was probably going to waste.

“So perhaps there’s a hint of irony in Shelley’s death after all then?”

He smiled sadly. “Perhaps.”

  


  


  


“Would you have left the cave?”

Oliver was leaning over the edge of the pool, the droplets in his hair threatening the side of my scorebook. “I know it’s an overused prompt, but I’m always curious.”

I finished Plato’s _Republic_ last night and was back to stressing over Haydn. Oliver had been swimming laps in the pool that morning while I sat on the edge, dangling my legs in the water, half watching, half working, waiting for Mafalda to call us in for breakfast. I had told him how I particularly enjoyed the allegory of the cave.

“Of course,” I said. How I was tempted to thread my fingers through those wet locks. “Why would you stay when you know the real world is right outside?”

Oliver shrugged. “Because the cave is all you’ve ever known? Can you imagine seeing the sun for the first time after spending a lifetime in darkness. You’d go blind.”

I leaned on my elbows, stretching out the crick in my back. “So you’re saying ignorance is bliss?”

“I’m saying it’s not wrong to think so,” he said, resting his chin on my knee. “I’m trained to look at it from all angles.”

I thought of the shadows cast in the light - how the prisoners would only ever know the shapes of the objects and people behind them. They would never know how things really appeared, smelled, felt, or tasted. A world without senses was nothing but a provocative farce.

“I’d rather be blind and free than a prisoner,” I said, reaching out to brush aside a clump of hair plastered on his forehead.

Oliver took a long look at me, then shook his head, lifting himself up to give me a quick peck before swimming off to finish up his remaining laps.

  


  


  


He asked me if I wanted to go into town with him after dinner. “To walk it off,” he said, which some weeks ago would have been interpreted as an excuse to stave off boredom. I knew that he wanted to spend more time with me.

We got ice cream in the piazzetta and walked our bikes across the square, past the Le Danzing and the line of caffès, away from the crowd of people gathering by the straw chairs at the town center. I remembered him doing the exact same thing with Chiara the night I ran into them in the square.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I said, grinning as I bit into my cone.

If there weren’t people around, I would have slipped my arm around his waist, and he’d probably do the same.

After finishing our ice cream, he suggested biking to the berm. I managed to tail him for most of the way until he veered off the main road and weaved through the stunted palm. He remembered the way.

I shifted gears and followed him through the narrow grove, my tires bumping unevenly along the unpaved path, which soon became too unruly for us to maintain proper steering. He jumped off his bike, letting it fall in the clearing, and escaped through the gnarled pine trees.

I got off the bike, and after throwing it down by his, ran after him.

He was fast, but this was my terrain, and it didn’t take long for me to tackle him from behind, yelping as we both went crashing into the thicket of weeds.

I pinned him down on a patch of uneven grass, my hands clasped in both of his, feeling triumphant. Out of breath, he reached out to touch my face. There was no hint of smugness or masked emotions - just gentle, clear eyes, blue like the sky and sea around us. I couldn’t imagine a world without that color.

I could spend an eternity taking in the shades and hues of that day, letting it seep into my body like paint so that I would never forget the weight of that moment. We were meant to be one, every part of us fused together, harmonious and whole. I leaned in to taste him - his lips, his tongue, his face. He sighed into my mouth and pulled me closer.

“Oliver.”

  


  


  


Despite my current distractions and slow progress on Haydn, I tried picking up Heraclitus again.

From what I had deduced, the world was an open playground, or in a _constant state of flux_ \- and time had a beginning and an end, as with life, which began with birth and ended with death. This never ending cycle was proof that nature was always shifting and changing, allowing us to become what _we are and are not_. Oliver didn’t like finality, and neither did I. So according to him, because the river was always flowing, we were - in a sense - immortal.

Yet, there was still something missing. The texts existed only in bits and pieces, and its true meaning was likely altered through various translations and interpretations over the years. It was like figuring out a puzzle in a puzzle.

By lunch, I had given up on Heraclitus’ fragments, throwing the book across the bed with a groan. I was a patient and adaptable reader, but there was only so much I could derive from a misanthrope who spoke in cryptic code and contradictions and spent the last hours of his life covered in cattle excrement.

I could hear a chuckle from the other side of the room and looked over to see Oliver leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, a thick folder clamped under one arm.

“Back already?”

“I heard you had a crisis,” he said, grinning. “What’s going on?

“Like you could understand,” I said, flopping back on the bed, but proceeded to give him more details about my plight.

“Why not try something else?” Oliver was now lying next to me, staring at the ceiling. He asked if I wanted to borrow his little Loeb edition of Lucretius’ _De rerum natura_ to give me a break from Heraclitus.

“You can practice your Greek,” he joked.

“I’ve already tried reading it,” I admitted, sheepishly. “Nicked it from your room that one time you were out biking with Mario and the others.”

“That so?” He was clearly amused. I turned away so I wouldn’t have to witness the smirk on his face from the periphery. “And?” He still managed to lace insufferable smugness into just that one word.

I frowned. “It’s incomplete.” I tried to think of something intelligent to say on the matter but found myself blanking. “He wrote a poem about atoms.”

Oliver laughed. “Well, it’s definitely not Leopardi or Celan, that’s for sure.”

I began fiddling casually with his drawstrings, slowly sliding my fingers over the fading bruise on his hip. I pressed at it with my thumb, rubbing around the mark idly. I was about to slip my hand under his shorts when he sat up abruptly. “I promised the others we’d play tennis this afternoon,” he said.

Feeling dispirited, I rolled over on my stomach in defeat. "Have fun,” I mumbled into my pillow, hoping it would muffle any sounds of bitterness. Old habits die hard.

“Come join us,” he said, shoving me playfully, and after a pause, added softly, “enough with these books, Elio.”

  


tly

  


  


Thursday morning found me on my hands and knees by the nest of rocks along the coast. There was the sleepy ocean view in front of me, then there was Oliver, behind me - _inside_ of me.

It was his idea to do it on the beach. I had rolled my eyes when he suggested it after our swim earlier in the week. “That’s so cliché,” I said. “Besides, Bellini’s are better.” I wasn’t much of a cocktail person anyway, preferring wine and spirits as my poison. Some things should stay simple.

“Point is - ” Oliver said, looking away bashfully, “I’ll probably never get another chance to do this.” I thought about how New England towns only experienced a few months of sun every year, and even then, the beaches were too cold to play out his fantasy. I gave in eventually, after spending the afternoon in bed, biting on my knuckles as he ran his tongue down the length of my cock, base to frenulum. He could convince me to do just about anything with that mouth of his.

We went before dawn, early enough to avoid any awkward encounters with tourists or regulars, and were able to secure an area off the main strip at the far end of the beach by the cove. It was unlikely that we’d be interrupted there.

Aside for the towel Oliver brought, which separated my hands and knees from the rough sand, I had no distractions and no reprieve from the overwhelming sensation of his cock, heavy and thick, teetering between too much and not enough. I gripped the towel, grunting as I moved my body to the same languid beat of his hips, taking pleasure in all the desperate noises he made in turn. There was something thrilling about being out in the open, with the elements, uninhibited like the rest of nature.

We were reduced to base copulation - no showy angles or fancy rhythms. Just plain, raw fucking. Maybe Nietzsche was right. By giving in to these animalistic urges, I was also giving in to greed - to my unquenchable thirst for his cock, his mouth, his ass.

My dick surged at the thought. I shifted my legs further apart, curving my back, bracing myself as he fucked me harder. Sensing that he was close I reached behind, grabbing his ass for leverage, leaning on the balls of my feet, and pushed myself back on his cock. That was all it took for him to tip over, spilling himself into me with a shudder, head drooping over my shoulder. I knew I was going to feel it the whole day going into the next.

The verdict: Sex was good. Sand got _everywhere_. Bed was still better.

“Have you done this before?” I asked, all but passed out on the towel, ignoring the uncomfortably wet patch beneath my belly.

He shook his head and sat up, somewhat dazed, looking around for his bathing suit - _red_ \- which got stuck under the towel during our heated session.

“Did you enjoy it?” I knew I was being fatuous.

“What do you think?”

I shrugged, smirking all the same. I thought about cocktails again and had to resist the urge to make a joke.

“Let’s go for a swim,” he said, helping me to my feet. I knew it was his convenient way of “washing up” before returning to the house.

I found my shorts and was about to wear them when I saw Oliver walking out towards the water completely naked save for the Star of David gleaming on his chest. I surveyed the surrounding to find the beach still bare and followed him out to the shore in the same fashion, leaving my belongings on the towel.

We waded into the steady, brisk waters until we were both deep enough to tread. He fell back, letting buoyancy do most of the work, his body floating peacefully with the tide. I followed suit and closed my eyes, relaxing until I was able to strike that balance between two elements, hovering in limbo.

The sea was calm today, but I knew that wouldn’t last for long.

“I’m starving. C’mon." Oliver started to swim back, probably fearing the crowd of early risers who would soon be making their way over. I took my time returning to the shore, the Italian side of me less worried about my dignity, so that I could appreciate the one and only time I’d witness Oliver walking along the beach in that state.

Out in the distance, I noticed the warm pink light peeking out over the horizon. It glowed and soothed me despite the goosebumps creeping up all over my arms and legs. Soon, the sea would be as warm as the summer air.

I stood there a while longer, feeling the water slosh against my body, and watched as the waves withdrew, pulling with them the last traces of sweat and semen, his and mine - the evidence of our lovemaking - from my skin.

  


  


  


We were out for a late stroll along the promenade when he made the announcement.

“I’m planning on heading to Rome before I leave for the States.”

I stalled in my tracks.

“You’re leaving early?”

Oliver nodded, apologetic. “I need the last few days to go over my manuscript with the publisher.”

I didn’t know how to react. I wasn’t surprised, but I also hadn’t had time to prepare a response. The reality of the situation seared through layers of denial that I had unconsciously wrapped around myself like armor. He would be gone in a few days, as planned, as expected, and there was nothing to be done.

He turned to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “I’d like you to come with me.”

“To Rome?” _Just Rome?_

“To Rome.” _Just Rome._

“I’ll have to ask my parents first.”

“They won’t say no.”

This was my chance to say something. But what? He was a graduate student and professor at Columbia, and I still had one year left of school until college. I knew how this story ended - had always known. It didn’t matter that I worshiped the pale skin beneath his forearms and underneath his feet - or that every night, I mapped out each curve and dip of his body like I was discovering a new constellation. There was always a deadline. Those last six weeks existed on borrowed time, and now that I met my quota I had to let him go.

I reached out for his hand, feeling him hesitate before weaving his fingers through mine. We both looked ahead and continued on our path.

My father was right. We were the two shyest people in the world, and our failure to act would be our downfall. We were a tragedy in the making, doomed before we came into existence. We were two pieces that fit together perfectly, but were oddly incompatible with the rest of the set and had to be tossed out.

And I suppose we were both cowards, at the end of the day.

  


  


  


Oliver once told me, when I was in a fit of peak trying to make sense of Heraclitus, to read not with gentleness or generosity, but with patience and forbearance. I didn’t understand what he meant at the time.

I had hoped that by reading what he read, knowing what he knew, I would be able to bridge the distance between us. I wanted to live inside his body. I wanted to peer into the depths of his mind - to know him more than he knew himself.

Yet, I could feel Heraclitus eluding me with every page, the abstract concepts appearing just beyond my grasp, suspended like the hand of God on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It tempted and taunted me, like a mirage in the desert. I realized then that I could spend an eternity reaching out towards Oliver, fingers short of grazing his - that my insatiable need for him would ultimately reside in the space between, permanently preserved in fresco.

  


  


  


During dinner, we were greeted with a table full of Mafalda’s signature dishes. My father announced that we would not be having any other guests that night, per Oliver’s request.

“Call it a private feast for our favorite _cauboi_ ,” my mother said, reassuring him with a wink. “Just family tonight.”

I didn’t have much of an appetite, even when Mafalda brought out the _sfogliatella_ and _caffè_ , which was the part I always looked forward to.

At the closing of the meal, my father cleared his throat and stood at the head of the table - a tradition that took place every year around this time. Given how much more everyone was drinking that evening, he had to steady himself a bit.

“A toast to Oliver,” my father said, raising his glass, “for finishing his manuscript and for gracing us with his presence this summer. You have been a fine understudy and great company to me and my family, but more importantly, you have been a good friend. I wish you the best, whichever path you choose to take. Know that you will always be welcomed here.”

We all clapped and helped ourselves to more of my father’s _grappa_.

I sipped my glass and watched in silence as Oliver rose to embrace my father in a tight, affectionate bear hug. My mother was sniffling on the side, laughing through tears when Oliver suddenly turned and swooped her in his arms. “Now your turn, Mrs. P!”. I should have joined in on the sentiment, but instead I found myself unengaged and listless.

Afterwards, Oliver and I headed down pass the balustrade and through tiny gate to the buff. I walked at in my usual, unhurried pace, knowing that each step ahead was a step further away from him. I hadn’t felt this uneasy since our conversation at the Piave memorial, which now seemed like a lifetime ago. When we finally reached his spot, my stomach was in tangles and knots. This would be our last time together on this rock, I thought.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He took me in his arms, letting me rest my head on those broad shoulders of his, how I’ll miss them.

“I want - ” I paused, voice cracking. I took a deep breath, tilting my head into his chest so he couldn’t see me. “You. Just you.” _And nothing else. It’s all I’ll ever ask for, if you’ll grant my wish, if you’ll stay_.

He pulled back, held my face, pressing his forehead to mine, closed his eyes and kissed me firmly. I clenched the back of his shirt with both hands, letting my tongue and silence carry the weight of words.

I didn’t know how long we were necking on that rock, but soon after, he led me back to the house, across the balcony to our room.

The moonlight shone brightly through the windows, and I could make out a copy of _Armance_ on the desk, the same one I bought and inscribed for him that day at the bookstore. I could see that it was bookmarked about three quarters through. So he had been reading things outside his scope of research. I hadn’t noticed at all and wondered what else I had missed during his time here.

I felt his hand against my cheek, guiding my attention back to him as he leaned in, his eyes a steely glow - lambent, and so, so warm. 

That night, with our bodies tangled together in heat and perspiration, we cried profanities - his name, my name - over and over against ears and mouths and skin, his Star of David trapped between our bodies, and did not think about how this would be the last time we’d ever make love in this room.

  


  


  


The day of our trip, Mafalda prepared for lunch one of Oliver’s favorites, _risotto alla pescatora_ , lightly dressed with mussels, shrimp, squid and some leftover fish. He beamed at her and tried to pull her in for a kiss as she swatted at him, smiling all the while.

It was a quaint affair, since most of us were still dealing with the aftereffects of last night. I quickly ate and drank my cappuccino before excusing myself to work on the transcription in the living room, away from the others.

After an hour, I heard a familiar set of footsteps and looked up to find Oliver by the door.

“I was looking for you,” he said.

I took off my headphones and closed my scorebook, placing them both on the arm of the couch. “I was trying to get a little more of it done before we leave.”

He walked behind and and placed his hands on my shoulders, massaging them the way he did on the tennis courts, back when neither of us knew how to act around the other.

“Can you play it for me?”

“It’s not finished.”

“I don’t care.”

 _But I do_ , I wanted to say. I didn’t like to present things in segments, half-done. Incomplete.

“ _Please_.”

He said the word gently, carefully, like I had the answers to everything. I told him I would. If he only knew, I would do anything he asked. I would do this forever if he wanted me to.

I stood up and walked to the piano just as I did all those afternoons and evenings, trying to tell him through music or poetry or words how I felt - not just that summer, but my whole life.

I sat down and looked out the patio windows, across the room from where Oliver sat. It wasn’t so long ago when he followed me through those very doors to hear me play. I remembered looking forward to his reaction every time I altered a familiar tune. Now, I couldn’t even look at his face without falling apart. I was afraid - afraid of that day when I turned around and he wouldn’t be there.

I didn’t want change. I didn’t want Plato or Heraclitus or any of the Presocratics. I didn’t even want Haydn. I only wanted Oliver, as he was at that very moment - tanned, broad, sweat gleaming on his chest and shoulders - with his billowy shirt, red shorts, straw hat and espadrilles. I wondered what he was thinking right now, but knew that I could never find the courage to ask and would spend the rest of my life wondering instead.

I blinked, feeling a burning sensation behind my eyes.

“Still there?”

It hurt to speak.

“Still here.”

His voice, deep, calm, and grounded like the still water of our pool, the trees in Anchise’s orchards, the French windows of my room, the _orle of paradise_ at the height of summer. I tried to picture as much of him as my mind could recreate and carefully placed my fingers over the keys, straightened my back and began to play.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2017 shortly after reading the novel but had to put the final editing on hold. There has been a great influx of stories since then, so I apologize if the whole concept seems unoriginal. 
> 
> This fic borrows heavily from themes presented in Plato’s _Republic_ and _Symposium_ and Heraclitus’ fragments. I am not an expert in the field (please see tags).
> 
>  _Il Sorpasso_ , directed by Dino Risi, is a 1962 cult comedy about two men on a road trip during the economic boom of post-war Italy.
> 
> And yes, there’s a line taken from Aretha Franklin’s "One Step Ahead".
> 
> I have no beta, so all mistakes are mine.


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